I Do Not Know You
by jawnlovesajumper
Summary: Captain John H. Watson, of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. One thing saved his life, and that was a small piece of newspaper.


Captain John H. Watson, of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.

It was a simple title, one that rolled off his tongue with ease after he returned to London. But it always took him back, to times he did not want to revist. He could usually push it to the back of his mind, focus on something else to keep the all to vivid memories away.

When he was fighting, in the midst of it all, however, it was much harder to do so. One thing kept him same, kept him believing in hope amidst the chaos. And that was a small, worn out newspaper clipping.

John had found the newspaper clipping one day, and followed it as it drifted in the wind. He had missed things as mundane as the newspaper, and he was curious to see what it was about, hoping it would perhaps take him back to calmer times. Such as small piece of paper, however, could not have had a bigger impact.

As soon as he caught up with the piece of newspaper, he heard a large explosion close by. Seconds later, he was thrown to the ground, surrounded by heat and unexplainably loud noises. When the smoke cleared and he was able to regain his senses and lift his head up, he noticed that the newspaper clipping was still gripped tight in his hand. Though his head was pounding and his ears were ringing and he could feel multiple cuts beginning to bleed on his backside, he smoothed out the paper just enough to see what it had printed on its face. The smalle piece of paper had, after all, just saved his life. If he had not been searching for the paper, had not been following it as it drifted in the wind, he would have been at the site of impact, and things would have turned out much differently.

John saw a face that he was not familiar with, which wasn't surprising. But he also was unfamiliar with the name accompanying it, which was a bit odd, considering the setup of the page suggested he was somewhat of a media star.

The heading read, "SHERLOCK HOLMES SOLVES MYSTERY OF REDHEADED CRIMINAL." Most of the article was missing, but the picture showed a man around John's age, if not younger, with dark curly hair and a look of extreme indifference on his face.

John carried the paper with him everywhere after the incident. He considered it his good luck charm. It had, after all, saved his life. When he was feeling down or depressed, he would pull out the little clip of paper and smooth it out, reading the few words that complemented the headline. It would comfort him, though he could never explain why. After a few months of looking at the photo and the headline and the part of the article, he decided that, whenever he returned to London, he would find this man, and thank him for, unintentionally, saving his life.

It was soon after he decided this that he was, in fact, sent home; a bullet wound proved to be too much for the Great Watson, and he was sent back to London.

He was not happy about the series of events; he did not want to go back to London, not yet, especially when he knew no one and had no way of supporting himself. He had PTSD, as many veterans did. He did not like to consider himself a veteran, however. He did not like the idea of being sent home. He felt that it was demeaning, even a bit embarrassing on his part. But he had bigger things to worry about now, like how he was going to find a way to live in London.

He had nearly forgotten his promise to find the famous –to him anyway- Sherlock Holmes when he returned. To be honest, there were more important things to take care of. But regardless, he still carried around that torn up, worn out piece of paper with him at all times. He would feel it in his pocket when he felt all hope was lost. "This saved your life, Watson," he would tell himself. "Make it worth something."

John was afraid that he would be able to make nothing out of his life; he was afraid that he would end up crazy and alone, like so many other veterans who had no family to go to. John had family, of course, but he was not in good standing with them, and refused to seek out their help after they had neglected him for so many years.

When all hope seemed lost, a chance meeting took place in the park. John was taking a walk, trying to clear his mind of those things that haunted him most, when someone called out his name. He looked for the source of the voice and recognized Mike Stamford, an old friend of his. He was happy to see him, of course, but John had no time for any nonsense. Then he decided that maybe talking about what was going on might do him some good.

He explained to Mike that he had been shot, sent back to London, and was now desperately looking for a way to support himself in the chaotic city. Mike suggested he get a flat with someone else, a flatmate. "Who would want me as a flatmate?" John asked with a scoff. Mike told him that he was the second person to ask him that, and said that he wanted to introduce John to someone.

John wasn't sure what he expected. An inept old lady, perhaps, or someone equally as crazy as himself. What he wasn't expecting, though, was what he saw.

He recognized the man immediately. Though he looked a bit different, not much had seemed to change; his face matched that from the newspaper most perfectly. John broke into a smile, and it was received with odd looks.

"What?" Mike asked, as confused as everyone else in the room.

"You're Sherlock Holmes," John said, looking over the man.

Sherlock nodded as if this was the most obvious statement he could have made.

"You saved my life."

This was met with a bewildered expression.

"Impossible," Sherlock said sourly. "I've never met you before in my life."

"No, you haven't," John agreed. "But I know you."

He pulled out the small folded piece of newspaper from his pocket and smoothed it out once more, like he had done so many times before. He held it out with a shaky hand to the man standing in front of him. Sherlock looked it over without taking it from John's hand, then nodded curtly.

"I still do not see how an old newspaper article about me saved your life."

So John explained the situation, told everyone, in great detail, what had happened; he told them about the bombing, about how the newspaper clipping had distracted him and caused him to be just out of the lethal range of the explosion, about how, ultimately, Sherlock Holmes saved his life.

Sherlock scoffed at this. He thought the whole ordeal was just silly. Just because this stranger had followed a newspaper that had just so happened to have Sherlock's name on it did not mean that he had saved the man's life.

But John did not care. He stuck out his hand, and when Sherlock took it, rather reluctantly, he said, "Thank you. Thank you so much."


End file.
